David Waddington Memoirs (4 page)

I had an impressive list of speakers for my term as president. The great disappointment was Viscount Simon who afterwards complained bitterly that he had been questioned by members of the audience about his past. In fact, the audience had been very restrained and I could not understand how someone in his position could resent being questioned about the years of appeasement and his actions at that time.

I
n the summer of 1950 I went on holiday to Corsica and Italy and arrived home to find that my Bar final course at Gibson & Weldons had already started. I set off for London and found lodgings in Notting Hill. Then I fell on my feet. John Morrison’s father, Shakes Morrison, who became Speaker of the House of Commons before being elevated to the peerage as Viscount Dunrossil, offered me the use of his flat in the Inner Temple. My fellow lodgers in Notting Hill could hardly believe their eyes when I showed them my new ‘digs’.

Rationing was, however, still very severe and one person living alone had to use a great deal of ingenuity to avoid going hungry. The weekly meat ration from a butcher in Fetter Lane provided one good meal. I used to enjoy fried onions – just fried onions – for one or two other meals.

I took the Bar finals examination in December 1950 and it could not have been very testing because I passed with little difficulty. But when, wanting to get my national service over as quickly as possible, I tried to get called up for the army, I found no one in any great hurry to have me. Eventually, after a frustrating wait, I was ordered to attend an interview at Preston in the course of which I was asked which part of the army I wanted to join. I found it very difficult to answer given my rudimentary grasp of matters military, but I did not fancy walking, so murmured something
about the Armoured Corps. ‘The Royal Armoured Corps, please’ said the officer rather testily and a few weeks later I received a rail warrant and orders to report to the 67th Training Regiment, RAC, Hadrian’s Camp, Carlisle.

In time I came to enjoy the army but the first few weeks brought no merriment. All day long we were marched up and down the barracks square and bawled at by terrifying sergeants. I longed for the occasional smoke break spent propped up against the nearest building. One day we were taken to the gym where the instructor paired us off according to size and told us to get boxing. I took a swing at my opponent, who promptly turned his back on me and trotted off round the edge of the ring. For the next two minutes I was hot in pursuit, flailing at his fleeing figure. Eventually we were deemed trained, after which those of who were considered potential officers were sent to a hut of our own to await a summons to WOSB (War Office Selection Board) at Barton Stacey.

While queuing up to get my paybook on my first day in the army I had got into conversation with a fellow recruit called Geoffrey Wheeler who asked me what regiment I was going to join. He, it appeared, had already applied for the XII Royal Lancers and I, having no knowledge of that, or for that matter any other regiment, thought I might as well apply for the 12th as well. The upshot was that a few weeks later the two of us were in a 15 cwt truck heading for Barnard Castle where the regiment was stationed. I thought we were going for an interview but instead we were invited to lunch in the officers’ mess during which we were asked a few questions and our table manners observed. We were then told that if
commissioned
we would be welcome as members of the regiment.

I then continued my life of ease in the potential officers’ hut. No one took any notice of us and we kept ourselves to ourselves lest anyone should come along and give us anything strenuous to do. One Sunday I decided to go to the pictures in Carlisle –
Mammy
starring Al Jolson. Some hours later I walked back to the camp and when passing the Orderly Room was put under close arrest. I, along with five other potential officers had, unbeknown to ourselves, been detailed for guard duty. The next day we appeared before the squadron leader and were given seven days CB.

There then followed one of the more unpleasant weeks in my life. CB, I discovered, involved a lot more than being ‘confined to barracks’. It involved parading in full kit every hour or two with the threat of further days CB for any lapses such as dirty webbing, imperfectly shined boots or the like. Terrified that I would spend the rest of my days on ‘jankers’ I worked unceasingly on my outfit and eventually, to my intense embarrassment, was paraded before everyone else serving punishment as a model ‘jankers’ man.

Our first parade was at 5 a.m. after which we had to carry out various fatigues. One morning I was given the best job of all,
cleaning
the Adjutant’s office; and while doing so I took advantage of one of the perks of the job, access to the Adjutant’s in-tray. There I read a memorandum commenting on the fact that some potential officers had been awarded CB and that never again should young soldiers who had undergone punishment be allowed to go forward to WOSB.

When still waiting for WOSB, I went to the same squadron leader who had awarded me CB and asked for compassionate leave to go to London to be called to the Bar. In retrospect I can see it was pretty cheeky and so thought the squadron leader. I do not think he believed a word I was saying. But eventually he said I could go on the understanding that if I did not return with the clearest possible evidence that I had indeed been called to the Bar, the most appalling consequences would follow.

A few days later I took the train to London and I went to see the under-treasurer of Gray’s Inn, Mr O. Terry, who looked at me as if I had crawled out from under a stone and said that he had never
heard a more ridiculous proposition than that I should be called to the Bar the following night. For a start I had to be sponsored by two Masters of the Bench and there was not a chance of my getting two benchers to do so in the few hours remaining before the ceremony was to take place.

I had visions of months, if not years, in the guardroom at Carlisle, polishing my boots and webbing until I was old and bald, and, in despair, I rang my father. He said that he did not know what to advise, but Mr Justice Ormerod might be able to help. Ben Ormerod was an old boy of Blackburn Grammar School and had been a county court judge in the Blackburn and Burnley area before promotion to the High Court. He was the local boy made good and my last hope. I looked up Ormerod in the telephone book and set out in my battle dress and beret to see the great man. On the doorstep I explained who I was and what I wanted, and the judge said that he could not sponsor me because he was not a bencher of Gray’s Inn, but his friend, Hubert Wallington, was a Gray’s Inn man and he would give him a ring. Mr Justice Wallington invited me to call round at his home and within the hour I had one of the signatures I needed and an introduction to Master Salt who, before the night was out, had provided me with the other one. My visit must have greatly impressed Mr Justice Wallington because two years later, when I started practising in Manchester and he was one of the High Court judges who regularly came there on Assize, he kept inviting me to lunch at the judges’ lodgings. This was a rare mark of favour which greatly impressed other beginners at the Bar and it later turned out that the old boy had, right at the outset, misheard my name and had been proceeding on the assumption that I was the eldest son of his dear sister Emily.

The next morning I returned to Gray’s Inn in triumph, but my troubles were not over. Mr O. Terry tried to erect various new obstacles to my being called, such as the absence of a dinner jacket,
but nothing was going to stop me now. I had got my signatures and called I was going to be; and called I was. Then, as now, students and barristers sat down for dinner in messes of four and at the appropriate time each member of the mess had to toast the three other members by name. For years I kept the piece of paper on which I had written the names of the members of my mess. Each name except mine was completely unpronounceable. My three companions all came from West Africa where I suppose they returned in due course to be Prime Minister or shot for treason – or both.

In those days the call ceremony was not very impressive. The hall and chapel at Gray’s Inn had both been destroyed in the Blitz and I had eaten my dinners to qualify for call in a bare lecture room with trestle tables. In that same room I was now called as an ‘Utter Barrister’. The next morning I wrung out of Terry a certificate evidencing what had happened and back in Carlisle presented it to a very surprised squadron leader.

Shortly after this episode I attended WOSB. I was required to climb a few ropes, negotiate an obstacle course and be interviewed about my hobbies and ambitions. I was then told that I had passed and would be going to Mons Officer Cadet School at Aldershot with a view to being commissioned in the cavalry.

At Mons, RSM Brittain was responsible for licking us in to shape. He not only had the loudest voice in the British Army, he also had an eagle eye. Once, when we were rehearsing for the
passing
out parade of the squad immediately senior to ours, he spotted something seriously amiss in the mass of soldiery before him. ‘You,’ he bellowed, ‘third man from the left in the second rank – your rifle’s cocked – pull the trigger.’ The man in question was a scruffy individual called Simon Plunkett. He was a Walter Mitty type
character
who had spread the rumour that he had flown in the RAF and that he was the brother of Shaun Plunkett, a much admired model.
Simon pondered for a moment but another bellow from Brittain convinced him there was no way out. He pulled the trigger. There was a loud bang. The Sergeant closest to Plunkett was temporarily deafened and at first could not hear Brittain bawling that Plunkett be put under close arrest, but eventually a posse of other NCOs descended on him and he was marched away to the Guard Room.

This incident, and another round about that time, convinced me that whatever I was I was not a member of the upper classes. For some weeks the weather had been cold and we were being drilled each morning in full battle dress. Then quite suddenly the weather improved and on the barrack square the Drill Sergeant’s first command was ‘shirt sleeve order’. We set about taking off our battle dress tops and rolling up our shirt sleeves and the operation proceeded calmly until the drill sergeant’s eyes lighted on Viscount Lumley. ‘Dirty elbows, Mr Lumley, Sir.’ Viscount Lumley later became the Earl of Scarborough and performed with great dignity numerous high offices, but never with bare arms.

Eventually the time drew near when, if all went well, I would pass out from Mons and become a commissioned officer, but I had no great confidence in my abilities and whenever anyone was RTU’d (returned to unit) I thought ‘there but for the grace of God go I’. It was in this frame of mind that I conveyed to my parents an invitation to attend the passing out parade but accompanied it with a warning that my own chances of passing out were not great. It was, therefore, with some embarrassment that I told them on their arrival at Aldershot that, not only was I to pass out, I was to be awarded the Stick as best cadet.

The night before the parade RSM Brittain drilled me personally, teaching me how I was to walk up the steps in slow time and take the Stick from the Field Marshal. He was not enthusiastic about my performance, at one point crying out in desperation ‘your bottom waggles, sir.’ But the next day all went reasonably well until after
the parade was over when I was told that I had to introduce my parents to the Field Marshal.

There was one immediate problem. I was not sure how I should handle my rifle in this more informal setting; in particular I had not the faintest idea whether I should or should not present arms. So with great presence of mind I hid my rifle under a bush growing conveniently close to the top of the steps where the Field Marshal was still standing. I then joined my parents and took them up to the Field Marshal. He was very friendly and said to my father: ‘I do hope your son will consider making the army his career.’ ‘Not on your life,’ said my father, ‘he has cost me a fortune studying for the Bar and to the Bar he is going.’

The next stop was Bovington in Dorset, the headquarters of the Royal Armoured Corps, and after that came the excitement of getting measured for my uniform in London. The ‘warm weather’ mess dress was a very fetching white jacket and shirt with scarlet cummerbund, overalls with a double yellow stripe down the side and black boots with spurs. There was also a flat hat and a side hat of scarlet with gold piping.

Embarkation leave ended with my parents taking me by taxi to Liverpool where the following day I was to board the
Empress of Australia
, bound for Singapore. But then came a most terrible humiliation. The ship cast off, slewed across the dock and hit the other side, seriously damaging a propeller. Two thousand soldiers who had just embarked had then to disembark and be dispatched to various camps in the north-west while the damage was repaired. I went to Saighton Camp near Chester. A fortnight of route marches followed, by which time it was plain that it was still going to be weeks before the propeller was ready. So we were sent home with our tails between our legs.

I got my trunk as far as Manchester, crossed from London Road to Victoria Station with it, put it in the luggage van on
the train to Burnley and settled down in the compartment next door. I arrived at Burnley to find the trunk had gone. Apparently someone had concluded that Burnley via Bury and Ramsbottom was not the quickest route to Singapore, the destination for which the trunk was labelled. It took a few weeks to sort out that little problem, by which time the ship was ready to sail; so to Liverpool I returned.

I was responsible for a troop deck which was home for 130 men. There were long tables across the floor at which they were to eat and hooks in the ceiling from which they were to hang their hammocks. In the best of conditions it would have taken the men a while to get used to sleeping in hammocks, but a day out from Liverpool we ran into a storm and by the time we got to the Bay of Biscay there was not a man capable of carrying out any duties, and conditions on the troop deck were squalid beyond belief. But at last the ship rounded Cape St Vincent, and soon we were in good order and in a holiday mood.

The ship was to have refuelled at Port Said but at the end of 1951 Britain was coping with the first Suez crisis and it was decided to stop at Algiers instead. I remember how beautiful were the gardens facing the quay and how immaculate and prosperous-looking was the centre of the city. (I returned in 1968 as an MP to find it had changed out of all recognition – dirty, drab and squalid.) Orders went out that no one was to enter the Casbah in the interests of their own safety. Two hours later the place was full of soldiers. I know. I saw it for myself.